Death in the Dolomites (17 page)

“Exactly,” answered Luca. “And then there's Muller. He met Taylor once at his hotel, he admitted that. He may have had more contact with the man than he claims.”

Rick shook his head. “But why would Muller be in that field with Taylor and a bottle of prosecco?”

“My American friend, Taylor was the key to Melograno getting the land. But the other side of the same coin is that Taylor was the key to Melograno
not
getting the land.”

“I need to think about that one a bit, Luca.”

“And the arrival of our
secondo
gives you that opportunity.” The waitress was approaching the table with a serving platter in one hand, spoon and fork in the other. “Flavio, your lady friend has appeared.”

Flavio's head turned to see Lori wave before sitting down at her table. He waved back. “Got to go. But you'll find this interesting, Riccardo. Lori called the consulate as we were going out and told them to put down the morning as vacation on her time card since she wasn't helping Cat. Can you believe that?”

“Yes I can. What is surprising is that you find such honesty remarkable. But I suppose you are still smarting from the employee who embezzled your money. By the way, you didn't tell us how you spent the morning.” He glanced at Luca who, as expected, was enjoying another exchange between the two friends.

Flavio got to his feet. “Skating.”

“Did you say skating? Ice skating?”

“Yes, Riccardo. Lori wanted to skate.”

“Did she wear one of those little skirts?”

“I'll see you two tonight.” He turned and walked across the room to Lori's table.

The main course was
stracotto di manzo
, pot roast, with mashed potatoes. The waitress deftly transferred the meat slices to their plates, using the fork and spoon as if they were attached to each other like tongs. It was the perfect
secondo
to follow what had been a tasty but rather light
primo
, with enough thick, dark,
sugo
from the meat to drizzle over the mashed potatoes. As with any good
stracotto
, only a fork was needed to cut it.

“What you were saying, Luca, if I understand correctly, is that by eliminating Taylor, Muller eliminates Melograno's way to finance the sale.” Rick put a piece of beef in his mouth. “But why would Taylor have gone up there with Muller?”

“To seal the deal with a bottle of bubbly. There would have been something in it for Taylor.”

“Taylor was being bribed by Muller? But he was such a straight arrow in his business ethics.”

The policeman sipped his wine and flashed a wry smile. “That's according to his sister. There may have been a darker side to our Signor Taylor that his sister was unaware of, or didn't want to admit. If you were completely Italian, instead of half, that would have occurred to you.”

Rick put some mashed potatoes on his fork and ignored the jab. “Am I mistaken, Luca, or have we narrowed the field of suspects in this murder down to two?” Rick noticed that, without realizing it, he had said “we” instead of “you.” Luca did not appear concerned by it.

“Well, two primary suspects because of possible motives and their connection to the crime scene. There could be others, such as Lotti or Grandi, and the main suspects could have been helped by someone else, like the electrician, or the mayor. In fact, since there were two key parts of this crime, the murder itself and later dropping the body from the gondola, and everyone has an alibi for one or the other, or neither, it appears very possible that there was an accomplice. The body could well have been handed off to someone.” He took a piece of bread to get some stray meat sauce. “Which returns us to the issue of transporting the body. Everyone has a vehicle that could have done it: Muller has his Grand Cherokee, the mayor his city-provided Land Rover, even Gina Cortese, the ski instructor, has a small SUV, the sergeant told me.”

“And Lotti has his car with snow chains and almost certainly a trunk large enough to hold a body. All but Melograno, whose Mercedes is in the shop.”

“Which is something I have to check on tomorrow.”

“What's on your schedule for the afternoon?”

Luca had left a small clump of mashed potatoes on his plate, perhaps so he could tell his wife that he was not overeating. “I have to talk with the public prosecutor, and another reporter has appeared to dig into the story. And I'm going to interview some of Pittini's co-workers to see if they can tell me anything about who could have attacked him.”

“That's right, Pittini. I'd almost forgotten about him.”

“He shouldn't forget you, Riccardo. I spoke with the doctor who said your first aid on the scene likely kept him from losing a dangerous amount of blood.”

“What did the doctor say about his condition?”

“No change on the concussion. But the knife wound is healing well.”

Rick felt himself shiver. Not since the attack had they discussed the possibility that he was the intended target of the attacker. And he didn't want to bring it up now.

“And you are heading for the mountain after lunch?”

“I am. Cat wanted to ski, to get her mind off things.”

“That's very noble of you, Riccardo.” He looked out over the porch that ran outside the window of the dining room. The sun glistened off the snow. “It appears to be a fine afternoon to take to the ski trails.”

Chapter Eleven

Gazing down, Rick came to the conclusion that afternoon skiers were more languid and reflective than those who took to the trails in the morning. Fatigue played a part, as did the effects of food and wine at midday, but there was something about the afternoon which invited the skier to take in the experience as a whole and not think only of the joy of speed. Perhaps the angle of the sun caused it, or a shift in the wind direction. Whatever it was, skiers paused more frequently to enjoy the scenery, stopped more frequently to talk. Reaching the bottom was something faced with reluctance, even when there was time to return to the top.

He and Cat were floating inside one of the egg-shaped
cabine
that ran high above the clumps of skiers. It had passed through a wooded area as it steadily climbed, eventually bursting into the open spaces of the glacier where the cable slowed for an intermediate stop. This would be their last run, and they stayed on, as did the skiers who occupied two of the other four places in the cabina: teenage girls who stared silently through the windows while listening to music through ear buds.

“Can you make out what they're listening to?”

Rick shook his head. “Could be rap, could be Rossini. All I hear is a faint crackle.”

“Do they have Italian rap groups?”

“I'm afraid so.”

They faced each other, knees and boot tips touching, ski poles leaning against the empty middle seats. Cat wore the same outfit Rick had seen in the picture with her brother: a one-piece blue suit with white boots and a matching knit hat. Her blond hair poked from the sides and back of the hat. She had turned out to be a competent skier, as Rick had expected after her mention of family vacations in Vail. Fortunately for Rick's ego he was more competent, thanks to college outings to the less elegant slopes of the southern Rockies. His ski apparel was more appropriate to Sandia Peak, New Mexico, than Vail, Colorado—a pair of heavy rain pants pulled over blue jeans, and a red parka which he still clung to from his college days. The outfit had served to keep him warm thus far on Campiglio's trails, especially on this afternoon when the sun was unencumbered by clouds. Just before they began their first run, Cat had pulled a small tube from her pocket and spread sun cream on his nose and cheeks.

“You've been sweet to take care of me, Rick.”

He lowered his eyes and touched his hand to his forehead. “It is my duty to help damsels in distress, Ma'am.”

She giggled. “Stop that. I mean it. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“I enjoy being with you, Cat. Let's leave it at that. And I'm glad you picked me instead of your neighbor to unburden yourself.” He wasn't sure how that comment would be taken.

“Daniele? Oh, please. He's a nice enough person, I suppose. But…”

Something better came along. He knew girls who did that kind of thing in high school, but ran into fewer of them now that he was in his thirties. He should give her the benefit of the doubt, in a stressful time she needed someone from her country, not just a guy who spoke her language. It's how his mother would have explained Cat's behavior, and Mamma knew a thing or two about finding herself in a strange country.

“Have you talked to him lately?”

She took off a glove and retrieved a strand of hair that had escaped from her cap. “He came to my door this morning and we talked. Wanted to know if he could help, and I told him that Lori was taking care of my needs. And I have to admit that Lori's been very helpful. There are things about the Italian authorities that I would never have known about, let alone been able to deal with. Daniele didn't know that the consulate had sent someone. He was impressed.”

The
cabina
was starting to slow as it neared the end of the line. They went from light to shadow as it slid through the opening in the cement building that housed the gears and pulleys as well as a small snack bar. When they were shunted off to a slower cable the doors slid open automatically. As they had practiced on earlier runs, Cat grabbed their poles and stepped out first, followed by Rick who then pulled their skis from tubes on the outside of the door. When they reached the snow and sunshine, Rick dropped the skis in four parallel lines and Cat stuck the poles next to them. She smiled at him before adjusting her goggles.

“We make a good team, Rick.”

“Easy for you to say, Cat. I had to carry two pairs of heavy skis.”

She laughed and stepped into her bindings. “This will be the final run, let's make it last.”

“I agree.” He snapped into his skis and they both adjusted their wrist straps. Neither appeared ready to push off, they stood leaning on their poles watching skiers on either side of them start the descent. They also took in the view. They were at the highest point of Campiglio's system of interconnected trails, the saddle between two jagged peaks. Ahead in the distance was La Presanella, an isolated set of mountains under a snowcap year round. Behind them was Monte Corona and other smaller crests in the Gruppo Brenta. To the east, far out of sight, the terrain opened for the Adige River that had started near the Austrian border. It flowed past Trento and through Verona before veering left to make its own way to the Adriatic rather than losing its water and name to the mighty Po.

Cat finally pushed off, slowly sliding from the shelf where they had stood. Rick watched her make a first turn before following in her tracks while keeping his eyes on her back. Even in the bulky ski suit, the shape of her body was evident. He stayed behind her for a few more turns before moving next to her, and together they crisscrossed the slope until reaching the bottom of the run where other skiers were getting on a chairlift for the return to the top. It was the spot where he and Flavio had met Gina Cortese two days earlier, but he didn't mention this to Cat.

After a few days of skiing with Flavio, Rick was familiar with the trails, so he led the way as they continued down. They glided between the trees, though the trail was still broad enough for easy, wide turns. Most of the skiers had stayed on the higher runs which still caught the afternoon sun, so they had the trail almost to themselves.

They came over a hill and descended into a small valley where a four-seat chairlift raised them to the side of the mountain that descended into Campiglio. As Rick remembered, there were a few steep drops before the trails between the trees widened and smoothed out, and he pointed the way for Cat. It was on the second drop that Cat's ski stubbed on a mogul and she tumbled for about twenty meters before coming to a stop. Fortunately, Rick was behind her, and he was able to stop to pick up the loose ski before pulling up next to her. She was brushing snow from her goggles when he came to a stop.

“You okay?”

“Fine, nothing broken.” She massaged the thigh on one of her legs. “Everyone has to fall once in an afternoon, don't they?”

He pulled her to her feet and dropped the ski next to her. “At least once. You're not testing yourself unless you take a few tumbles. You have to push the envelope.”

She stamped open the binding of the rogue ski and then stepped into it. “I wasn't pushing anything, Rick, I just fell.”

“Mogul mugging. It happens all the time, Cat. But take it easy the rest of the way, you may have twisted something.”

She took his words to heart, bending less and making wider and slower turns. Rick hung protectively behind her in case she fell again, but she stayed on her feet and he decided she'd been unaffected by the tumble. Even so, when they reached a fork in the trail, and stopped for a rest, he recommended they go for the easier final descent.

“That way is less steep, Cat, and it has some beautiful views once we get through the opening in the trees. Let's take it.”

“Sure, Rick, lead the way.”

He turned his skis toward a trail that dipped down and to the right, Cat behind him. They were the only skiers choosing the easier route; everyone else continued down the more challenging main trail which was also a faster way to reach the chairlift to the top. The incline on this trail was about perfect for easy skiing. Rick dropped his arms and let his poles drag in the snow, allowing gravity to push him forward. Beyond the trees, they burst into an open field, the trail cutting through its center. The left side was open and flat enough to land a small plane in summer. To their right, the ground rose steeply and steadily until it reached a few clumps of trees after a hundred and fifty meters. Jagged peaks rose dramatically in the distance behind.

Something wasn't right.

Rick turned his skis, coming slowly to a stop so that he was facing back toward where they had just come. Cat slid down next to him, her skis pointing in the opposite direction from his.

“It's beautiful, Rick, this was a good—”

“Just a second, Cat.” He held up his hand and turned his head toward the mountain. “It sounds like…but I thought they weren't allowed up here.”

What had started as a soft purr somewhere up on the mountain changed to a louder hum before bursting into a rattling roar. Then a dark snowmobile shot out from one from the clumps of trees high above them and started weaving its way downward. It bounced along like a child's toy, but with each second became larger. Behind the handlebars crouched a black-suited figure who scanned the valley below him while he gunned the engine. Rick looked back at where they had come from and then down the trail.

“Let's go, Cat. I don't like the looks of this.”

“But, Rick—”

“Move, Cat. Fast.”

She moved, pushing hard on her poles. Rick turned himself around and followed her, looking up every few seconds at the snowmobile. Fortunately the snow was deep, and it was having trouble getting through. The driver revved the motor as he cut his sharp turns, the afternoon sunlight glinting off his windshield. He was now about a hundred meters above, and even though a helmet covered the driver's face, Rick knew he was looking straight at them. Cat apparently knew it, too, since she was struggling to gain speed. The soft incline, which had made the trail inviting, now worked against them. To make things worse, the warmth of the afternoon had turned powder into slush in some spots, slowing them even more.

“Who is it, Rick?” Cat yelled as she worked her poles and skis.

“I don't know,” he called, “but somehow I doubt he just wants to ask directions.”

Rick knew that once they passed through the field the trail went into more woods before rejoining the main trail. And in the woods the snow would be in the shade, so slicker and faster. There would be other skiers on the main trail, and, if they were lucky, also a stray pair from the ski patrol. Strength in numbers. Could they get there? He looked up and saw that the snowmobile had bogged down in the deep snow. The driver had gotten off his seat and pushed the handlebars from the side, while gunning the motor, making the tread spin and kicking up a wide, white plume. With him stuck, we might just make it, Rick thought. They were now only about seventy-five meters from where the trail cut back into the trees.

He was watching Cat struggle to make more speed when a different sound came from above. It was a low groan that slowly drowned out the raspy noise of the snowmobile's motor. Rick's eyes jerked up and saw that their pursuer had disappeared behind a curtain of powder now moving in their direction. A thought flashed through Rick's head that the snowmobile's intent all along had been to cause an avalanche. Just as quickly, he forced himself to forget intent—what mattered now was saving their skins.

At least they were pointed in the best direction. He'd heard many times that outrunning an avalanche was futile, and they were on just the right diagonal line toward the trees. Would they make it? Only about fifty meters left. Fortunately the effect of the danger on Cat was to push her to go faster; he couldn't see her face but her taut body showed intensity. Twenty-five yards. She was forcing herself to look straight ahead, but Rick kept one eye on the descending wave of white. Ten. If Cat's bad leg didn't give out, they would reach the trees in time.

Cat shot into the clump of trees just as the avalanche reached the trail, but the edge of it caught Rick and tried to turn him around. He fought the force of the snow and was barely able to escape it, managing to tumble into the protection of the trees. His body rolled twice before ending up against the base of a tree. He looked back and saw that the trail behind them was obliterated.

“Rick, are you hurt?” Cat's voice came in gasps. She lay on her side, skis still attached, her chest heaving.

“I'm okay.” He struggled to his feet, shuffled to her side, and flopped on his back. “That wasn't exactly the way I had pictured our last run of the day.”

“It was a run, all right. But what…?”

Rick had raised his hand and lifted his head from the packed snow of the trail. The sound of the avalanche had stopped when it reached the level field below the trail. There had been silence, but now they could hear a very faint rumble of a motor. They exchanged looks and quickly got to their feet. The sound did not seem to be coming closer, but they couldn't be sure.

“Let's hope he's buried under a few feet of snow, Cat, but we'd better not wait around to find out.”

***

Luca snapped shut his cell phone, dropped it into his jacket pocket, and took a long drink of beer. “The ski patrol has not found the snowmobile, and probably won't. He was lucky not to have been caught up in the avalanche. Had it started above him, they might still be trying to dig him out. There was a large indentation where you saw him get stuck, and tracks that showed he'd managed to get back into the trees above the hill. They followed the tracks, but when they merged onto a service trail, there was no way to differentiate them from those of other vehicles. They're checking registrations, but with so many of them, it's almost impossible to know whose snowmobile it is. And it could have been borrowed or stolen.”